I wrote this poem with a sharpie pen
Fine point
Black ink
It is not my normal choice of pen
I'm picky like you
I used it because you said it was your favorite to write with
I wanted to write you
Wanted to see you in these letters scratched across
my notebook the way I did in your marginal notes
in books you gave me. Books you knew I'd enjoy
We always enjoyed books
No one else could discuss literature with me
for hours, but somehow we managed to
return to it consistently
We loved it
I'm pretty sure it loved us
Did we?
You've cut me off again
I am no longer allowed to contact you directly
so I wrote this poem instead
channeling you through this sharpie pen
I'll respect your wishes this time
Respect that
Respect you
Forget us
If that is what you want
It's said
Elephants can die of a broken heart
Let's not be elephants
Let's be something else
something smaller
something with less blood
less heart
let's be something solitary
that only comes together briefly
once in a lifetime
never repeating but
leaving a permanent impact
I couldn't think of what to be
so I looked it up
I'd say let's be lemmings
only I won't follow you over a cliff
or
let's be honey badgers
cause frankly
honey badger don't give a shit
Better yet, let's be armadillos
hidden behind our armor
we'll look like little grey
soccer balls
Don't kick us
we're breathing
And that's just it
we're breathing
You once were my "What if..."
Now you're my "I had you once"
And it was what I'd hoped
albeit too short and
we're still breathing
You're here (still)
And I'm sure you will be
for some time
In my mind
In my heart
In this ink
Because I wrote this poem with a sharpie pen
Fine point
Black ink
And I don't really like it
But I can see you
I always will
Despite your armadillo armor
You're here
Still
Stay a while longer
I know I will
I'm only halfway there
6.10.2011
night time whiskings
It's evening again
Stars are kissing their way through
the clouds with ease, it seems
as though we may get one
more chance at making a wish
I wish you knew
what it feels like to
lay back and see days
whisked by
by the current
beneath the raft
don't breathe too deeply
You'll take all the air
we must conserve what is left
for fear of
fear of losing consciousness
5.18.2011
new world order
What if tomorrow
we all wake up to a world
ruled by...antelope?
Would this fact strike you
as odd, or would it seem to
be standard by now?
Sometimes expecting
circumstances quite stranger
than normal is such
when normality is
already blurred by unknown
numbers of smudges.
we all wake up to a world
ruled by...antelope?
Would this fact strike you
as odd, or would it seem to
be standard by now?
Sometimes expecting
circumstances quite stranger
than normal is such
when normality is
already blurred by unknown
numbers of smudges.
4.26.2011
maybe we'll understand better when we are
Maybe we'll understand better when we are
older than those who have come before us
have given mind to, or when
we've decided that
ends and means were never justified
but for what lies between them
doesn't impact any less than the
two on either end of it.
Moments of clarity like the
silence between the white noise
crackles were nothing but
nothing echoes off itself
or maybe we never will.
older than those who have come before us
have given mind to, or when
we've decided that
ends and means were never justified
but for what lies between them
doesn't impact any less than the
two on either end of it.
Moments of clarity like the
silence between the white noise
crackles were nothing but
nothing echoes off itself
or maybe we never will.
1.06.2011
what if...
I'd carve you an ocean.
Through the middle of the country, from the
Gulf of Mexico straight up to Tulsa, a trench
as wide as your need for the coast, to carry up
salt secrets from the bottom of the Atlantic to
your back porch.
I'd build you a porch.
The finest pine hardwood colored by deep
mahogany stain and treated against the
weathering from your new Midwest salt air.
Every morning you could sit here;
Read British lit and sip from mugs of tea or
coffee with a splash of Eire. There would be
tables. And benches. And shelves for your books.
I would build it all with these two hands.
I'd take your hand.
We could walk along our ocean, skip rocks
along the surf and reminisce. Our hands
could grow wrinkled together; our palms would
share wrinkles as we walked. Our faces, weathered
by the wind and waves of our ocean, would stand out
in Midwest crowds. People would stare confused at
our wrinkles and sunspots and we'd just smile.
You make me smile.
Even a passing thought of you throughout the day is
visible on my face as a fleeting grin; and while no one
else may know exactly what or who is crossing my mind,
the expression tells them that it's pleasant...and uplifting...
and genuine.
But what it doesn't tell them is that away from their momentary
and unintentional company, that fleeting grin will never materialize
into something more, never be translated into words, never be
shared with your eyes.
You are my "what if?"
My "who knows?"
My "I wonder what..."
You are the one question to remain unanswered.
I'll never know what you smell like after a shower;
the touch of my fingertips against the skin along your
spine; whether or not we would fit like puzzle pieces
for the night, my knees in the backs of yours, fingers
laced, breathing synced. You're my "what if?"
What if we hadn't had so much distance for so many years?
What if I hadn't taken no for an answer?
Would fighting for you have brought you closer or
driven you further away?
My answer is no...to the questions you think but never ask
because even if the answer was yes, we could never find out
where those yeses would lead us so don't even ask them.
As the sky grows ashen and the sun sets on our ocean,
"what if" will remain and that's just fine with me, because
it is these "what if's" that inspire poetry so you're my inspiration.
And without that, I have nothing.
So remain unanswered and I'll remain inspired, and together we'll
write out our story while being free to live out our own lives.
Through the middle of the country, from the
Gulf of Mexico straight up to Tulsa, a trench
as wide as your need for the coast, to carry up
salt secrets from the bottom of the Atlantic to
your back porch.
I'd build you a porch.
The finest pine hardwood colored by deep
mahogany stain and treated against the
weathering from your new Midwest salt air.
Every morning you could sit here;
Read British lit and sip from mugs of tea or
coffee with a splash of Eire. There would be
tables. And benches. And shelves for your books.
I would build it all with these two hands.
I'd take your hand.
We could walk along our ocean, skip rocks
along the surf and reminisce. Our hands
could grow wrinkled together; our palms would
share wrinkles as we walked. Our faces, weathered
by the wind and waves of our ocean, would stand out
in Midwest crowds. People would stare confused at
our wrinkles and sunspots and we'd just smile.
You make me smile.
Even a passing thought of you throughout the day is
visible on my face as a fleeting grin; and while no one
else may know exactly what or who is crossing my mind,
the expression tells them that it's pleasant...and uplifting...
and genuine.
But what it doesn't tell them is that away from their momentary
and unintentional company, that fleeting grin will never materialize
into something more, never be translated into words, never be
shared with your eyes.
You are my "what if?"
My "who knows?"
My "I wonder what..."
You are the one question to remain unanswered.
I'll never know what you smell like after a shower;
the touch of my fingertips against the skin along your
spine; whether or not we would fit like puzzle pieces
for the night, my knees in the backs of yours, fingers
laced, breathing synced. You're my "what if?"
What if we hadn't had so much distance for so many years?
What if I hadn't taken no for an answer?
Would fighting for you have brought you closer or
driven you further away?
My answer is no...to the questions you think but never ask
because even if the answer was yes, we could never find out
where those yeses would lead us so don't even ask them.
As the sky grows ashen and the sun sets on our ocean,
"what if" will remain and that's just fine with me, because
it is these "what if's" that inspire poetry so you're my inspiration.
And without that, I have nothing.
So remain unanswered and I'll remain inspired, and together we'll
write out our story while being free to live out our own lives.
12.07.2010
This is just to say -
* I was looking through old papers from high school English classes and I stumbled upon this poem from sophomore year, along with a short essay on how I wasn't really into poetry and didn't see how it would ever affect my life. HA!
This is just to say -
I have broken
the strings
that are on
your guitar
and which you
probably needed
for your next
performance
Forgive me
It was so tempting
to try and play
like you
This is just to say -
I have broken
the strings
that are on
your guitar
and which you
probably needed
for your next
performance
Forgive me
It was so tempting
to try and play
like you
Beautiful Death
The red of her lipstick hid the blue of her mouth
Rouged cheeks disguised the pallid gray of her skin
Elongated eyelashes and dark shadows of painted silver
Drew attention away from the absence of breath
She was a beautiful death
She was waiting for me
I was not ready to go
This was alright with her
She is a patient wraith of a woman
Rouged cheeks disguised the pallid gray of her skin
Elongated eyelashes and dark shadows of painted silver
Drew attention away from the absence of breath
She was a beautiful death
She was waiting for me
I was not ready to go
This was alright with her
She is a patient wraith of a woman
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